


Arsonist’s Lullaby [HIATUS]

by ironiccowboykink



Category: Castlevania, Castlevania (Netflix)
Genre: Alucard has all my uwus, Ambiguous gentials, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dracula Doesn’t Die, F/F, F/M, Female pronouns, Happy Ending still Achieved, However you spell that, I probably won’t.. finish this, M/M, Non-binary pronouns, Reader Insert, Season 2 Rewrite, Smut Eventually, They Learn About Depression, Time Travel Fix-It, YES THE SONG IS NAMED AFTER HOZIERS SONG, and grief, future smut, taron egerton - Freeform, uhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 14:12:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironiccowboykink/pseuds/ironiccowboykink
Summary: You die. You die and wake up as Wilmot Woodbrygge, a travelling hero on their way to defeat Dracula. And it’s your job now to balance what you think is right and what is right for your new world.——“So I’m a band-aid, basically?” You ignore the fact that Taron said they’rehis souls too.Are all fictional characters real somewhere else?“More like a missing puzzle piece.” He grins again, but it no longer feels like he’s laughing at a joke he never said. It seems... melancholy. Alone. “Don’t look down.”And as you’ve done every time you’ve been given that instruction, you immediately look down. You’re confused; the floor is moving towards you, but you can’t move. Fearful, you look towards Taron, stretching your hands out to him desperately. The floor liquifies under you. The shadows on his face soften, and taking the final few steps separating him from you Taron kneels, caressing your face in his hands with a gentleness unknown. “You’re going to be okay. They’re waiting for you. This part is always the scariest. I’ll always be there for you. When you need me, I’ll be there.”





	Arsonist’s Lullaby [HIATUS]

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Hero Isekai - But For Adults This Time!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010159) by [acoolegg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acoolegg/pseuds/acoolegg). 



> oof lets hope I start typing this again it’s just been sitting in my drive
> 
> Also I don’t really remember the story so much no matter how many times I watch it, so it’s likely I’ll have the places mixed up
> 
> Inspired also by My Hero Isekai by Madmaiden, but I read the Adult version more.

“Wow,” you breathed, laying flat on your back in an all white room. “Wow.”

“Feeling alright?” A voice calls, sounding vaguely amused. “That was quite a way to go.”

You sat up on your elbows, twisting around fruitlessly to see whoever was speaking. “To be fair, I didn’t exactly feel most of it.” The voice said you… went. Does that mean you died? Last you remember was the smoke, and laying down, trying to crawl under the beam… 

“That’s true,” it concedes, startling you out of your reverie, and for some reason your brain identifies the voice as British. It sounds oddly familiar. Is— is God _British?_ “come up so I can see you. It’s been a while.”

When you stand—and rather shakily, might you say, your skin still feels tight from the heat— you find yourself face to face with… Taron Egerton.

“Ah,” you say, convinced you’re in the process of dying right now and the only think your smoke addled mind could conjure up is the boy from _Kingsmen._ “I see.” You’re startled, though, by the way his eyes glow a flinty gold, the way the shadows thrown across his face seem sharper than they should be. He looks otherworldly.

Taron nods like you’ve just said something that makes sense. “Yeah, uh, no, you’re dead. And no, your brain didn’t melt into some sort of soup in the fire— I’m your Watcher. I took the form you’d be most comfortable with. But I have to ask; do you normally risk your life for strangers like this?”

“Only on weekends,” you smile, feeling extremely perturbed by the placidity of shadow Taron Egerton. “What’s a—“

Taron leans forward, a wicked smile on his face. So much for placidity. “At least the baby survived, am I right?”

“Yes, yes,” you muttered, flexing your hand. It still felt pinched and dry. Your whole body did. You hadn’t expected to die like this. “Thank God for the baby.”

You think Taron senses some uncertainty in your voice, because he says, “Gods, God… Thank whoever, really. Thank me. I’m the one who saved you, and I’m whatever you need me to be. If it makes you feel any better, it would’ve died if you hadn’t stepped in. Stepped into a complete furnace of a house, that is.” Taron snickers.

It doesn’t make you feel any better, but you take it. You look at him again and he’s drinking something starry, and as a sense of vertigo hits you in this finite, endless room, meeting at the edges with both light and shadow, speckled with stardust, you really wish you had some too.

“I’d let you a sip, but you’d probably die again. Human livers just can’t process the stuff. Can’t be your Watcher if I’m killing you twice, now can I?” Taron smiles at you, but it’s too sharp and toothy.

You’re too confused by the term Watcher still to notice Taron’s just read your mind.“A what—”

“Anyway, I’m here to offer you something. Not so much offer than give. Your soul definitely didn’t live the life it was supposed to—not that was your fault,” Taron quickly amends, seeing you about to protest. “you were always a bit of a fighter, I think. Meant to take down something greater than you. But you died before you could, born in an era that pushed you to a path focused only on surviving. That nine eighty-something an hour doesn’t make for great living.” He gets a contemplative look on his face then, twirling the galaxy wine glass around in his fingers in a way that definitely should have made it spill. He drains it all and continues. “But you were always so compassionate and empathetic. I think you were meant to love something greater than you, too.”

He fixes you with a stare, golden eyes pinning you to your seat. The lackadaisical smile from earlier fades. “I’m going to put you in the place you belong most,” Taron says, and the hairs on the back of your neck raise. “with the people you love most.”

You jut your chin. “And who is that?”

He smiles again, flinging the glass over his shoulder where it shatters with no sound. “Alucard, Trevor, and Sypha, of course.” 

There’s joy, at first, and then confusion: “How am I supposed to— I can’t— their whole show is about surviving!”

Taron winks. “Is it?”

“Yes!” You exclaim, throwing your hands in the air. “Surviving demons, surviving Dracula, surviving… surviving…!” A groan rips itself from your mouth. “I died just to go somewhere where I’ll be trying my hardest to not die?”

Your Watcher crosses his arms. “They’re my souls too, you know. And they didn’t get the ending they deserve.” 

“So I’m a band-aid, basically?” You ignore the fact that Taron said they’re _his souls too._ Are all fictional characters real somewhere else?

“More like a missing puzzle piece.” He grins again, but it no longer feels like he’s laughing at a joke he never said. It seems... melancholy. Alone. “Don’t look down.”

And as you’ve done every time you’ve been given that instruction, you immediately look down. You’re confused; the floor is moving towards you, but you can’t move. Fearful, you look towards Taron, stretching your hands out to him desperately. The floor liquifies under you. The shadows on his face soften, and taking the final few steps separating him from you Taron kneels, caressing your face in his hands with a gentleness unknown. “You’re going to be okay. They’re waiting for you. This part is always the scariest. I’ll always be there for you. When you need me, I’ll be there.”

“But _why_ are you sending me there?” Your voice hitches on the edge of something you don’t want to think about. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You’ve already given that world part of yourself, haven’t you? Don’t you want it all?”

All you can do is nod.

“Make the most of this, Wilmot.” Taron whispers over you. His breath hits your cheek, and it’s the only warm thing in the room. You close your eyes.

And then you wake up.  
——  
_Wilmot Woodbrygge._

That’s all you can think when you wake up clad in light armor, shoveling dead demon parts out of Wallachia.

Wilmot’s body—your body—moves on its own accord, like you already know what to do. Muscle memory, you think. Scoop, shovel, drag to cart. Scoop, shovel, drag to cart.

A hatred bubbles up in you as you look at the severed, macerated demon parts. _Fuck_ vampires.

“I didn’t mean that!” You blurt, even though Alucard’s not here to hear you. “That wasn’t me,” you say, even though it was. You and Wilmot are the same now. You didn’t know you had written her to hate vampires, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? When you’d written her story—however loosely— you’d written it so Wilmot had lived in Targoviste. She’d been alive to see the burning of Lisa. Old enough to know it was wrong, but too young to have any real voice or impact. But you’d still felt the sting of Dracula’s rage, knew it to be unfair, and seethed in your own anger. Scars stretch across your back as you shovel. A memory flashes to the surface: of you, hiding, sobbing into the dirt, crushed under the weight of your dead mother. Waiting. Waiting for days until the demons left. Cracked lips. The unbelievable thirst—

“—ee? _He_ knows how to be nice.”

Oh shit. In your mindless wandering you’d meandered close to the people you were looking for. You wonder, briefly, if that intentional. If there was cosmic interference.

“Is it true, then?” You heard Sypha say. “The castle can travel somehow?” 

Oh. Shit. 

The part of you that knew who you were dealing with was ecstatic— it’s Trevor! It’s Alucard! It’s _Sypha!_ The curl of her accent made your heart feel warm. You were excited to meet them, truly, but you had to present yourself correctly too. Trevor’s a naturally suspicious person. You know he’s going to be most resistant to you, some know-it-all outsider. Thankfully Sypha is the most trusting of the three, and her opinion is second most valuable, but Alucard… 

You pressed your back flat against the brick, straining your ears. It’s a miracle no one’s stumbled upon them, but it’s a miracle no one’s heard _you_ yet. You can’t imagine you weren’t shuffling about particularly _quiet_ while you were flashing back. Shovel long abandoned, you bring your hands up to your chest to stop their trembling.

“Dracula’s castle moves,” rang the dhampir’s low timbre. “How to describe it?”

You really weren’t going to get a better opportunity than this, were you? “It travels without moving,” you said hurriedly, stepping out from behind the wall. “It appears at locations as if…”

The three of them stared at you. “As if by magic,” Alucard finished, a slight cock of his head belying his curiosity. “And who might you be?”

“W—Wilmot.” You shuffle nervously, the weight of their stares making your skin prickle. “Wilmot Woodbrygge.”

Trevor chimes, “How do you know about Dracula’s castle?” Nervous as you are, you don’t miss the way his hand shifts to the hilt of his whip. 

“I… ah,” you stutter, then raise your chin high and cross your arms. Wilmot steps in where you stumble, a truth flowing with ease past her lips: “I’m not the only one with a grudge against—“ your gaze flits to Alucard, who seems to be listening intently. “Dracula, nor am I the only hunter with knowledge at their disposal.”

“Stole the words right out my mouth, didn’t you now?” Alucard murmurs, and under his cold gaze your skin heats and prickles. 

Sypha, thankfully, seems delighted. “Finally, another woman around here! If I hung around with you two men any longer I think I’d become one.” She gives you a dazzling smile. “You said your name was Wilmot?”

You nod. “Woodbrygge. Wilmot Woodbrygge. You’re one of the Speakers.” It’s surprisingly easy to force curiosity into your voice even though you already know all about them. The excitement, however… 

“So you’re on a journey to defeat Dracula too? My name is Sypha by the way.” She holds out a slender hand for you to shake. Your hand nearly engulfs hers in your glove and your heart weeps.

“Sypha—“ Trevor starts, but you interrupt firmly in the positive. 

“Yes, yes I am. Aside from my own personal experiences, the slaughter in Targoviste…” the grief in your voice here is real. So many of Wilmot’s friends—your friends— your family, hers… Lost. “I can’t— I won’t let that happen again.”

Trevor grunts. You can tell he doesn’t like you. But Trevor’s rarely liked strangers, so you don’t take it to heart. “How noble of you.”

“Yes, how noble,” Alucard says, but his voice is so much softer than Trevor’s. “I’m sorry for what happened at there.” 

A smile splits your face before you can stop it, an unjustified fondness making your words come out warmer than you intended. “Bleeding heart,” you murmur, and the prick of Alucard’s ears tells you your premature familiarity, as well as your implicit refusal to accept his apology, has not gone unnoticed. “aren’t we all, just a little bit?”

You smile. “Ah, well, in any case, I think I will make a valuable addition to your team. I’m a trained fighter, and I have some knowledge about the otherworldly. When going up against someone as powerful as Dracula, you’ll need all the help you can get.” You hope that you aren’t making them feel incompetent. That’s the last thing you need to do honestly, and you know both Trevor and Alucard will lash out at you harder than Sypha will. You need them to be your friend and on your side, because this journey wouldn’t be fun without them.

And now, looking at the tired eyes of the three people you never considered to be real, you can’t help but wonder if you’re messing things up somehow. Or if they’re still destined to nearly lose to Dracula. Now that you think about it, you… You don’t actually want to kill him. You know that he’s trying to commit genocide and wipe out your entire race, but he’s just a broken man with incredible power; of course he would abuse it. 

“Right,” Alucard says, but it’s so tight it brooks no room for word from his partners. 

Trevor speaks anyway, in that brutish way that he does; he shoulders past you, muttering darkly under his breath. Neither Sypha nor Alucard bother to chase after him. 

Neither of them invite you into the little alcove, so you just pop down and make yourself at home. “So,” you say, with all the enthusiasm and curiosity of a person with uncanny knowledge of the future. “what’s the plan?”  
——


End file.
